


There's a Pebble in Wash's Buttcrack and He is so Done with this Planet.

by eggstasy, Strudelgit



Series: Hinky Alien Magic [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen, Tower of Procreation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggstasy/pseuds/eggstasy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strudelgit/pseuds/Strudelgit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've literally been sitting here for fifteen minutes trying to come up with a clever summary, but you know what? You know what this is. You see those tags. You know what you're getting into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Pebble in Wash's Buttcrack and He is so Done with this Planet.

Wash’s first thought at seeing the wave of orange light speeding across the sky was that, somehow, the purge had activated, despite Carolina and himself destroying the temple in that spectacular fashion, and that he was spending his last moments on a patrol around a mountain trail with Sarge, that Volleyball chick, and one of those Fed guys with the big guns and the red accents. Who’d been complaining about having to leave his big gun behind (“We’re going hiking for seven hours!!!” Wash had yelled, “It’s not practical!!!!”), when they all paused in their bickering and took notice of the eerie color of the sky.

Wash had kind of expected he’d eventually go out from a lucky bullet to the head or bleeding out, forgotten in some dirty ditch somewhere, and it was a borderline miracle that it hadn’t happened yet, so this was a little unexpected. But hey, even cockroaches die eventually. And then the wave of sparkling bright light washed over the group and…

Nothing.

“What the fuck was that?” asks Volleyball, and Wash reminds himself once again that he _really_ _should_ figure out her real name, as it was kind of embarrassingly late to ask for it now.

Wash unshoulders his rifle, peering suspiciously off in the direction the blast came from through the scope. There… was in fact a temple hidden in the valley below, blending in with the trees.

“Hey Sarge, you see that?”

The old man holds out his hands for the rifle. Wash passes it over, and Sarge looks through the scope.

“Hmmm..” Sarge turns to the Chorus natives, “Either of you know ‘bout any alien temples ‘round here?”

Volleyball shakes her head, and Big Red (The hell was his name again?) did the same. “No sir, this region was always a contended area. This was a Federation of Chorus protected wilderness reserve, until the rebels showed up and burnt a bunch of it to the ground-”

“Hoooolyy shit!” Volleyball pipes up, jabbing a finger into Big Red’s chestpiece. “That was over thirty years ago, Fed. How old are you?? Like twenty? You weren’t even around.”

Big Red rounds on the pink soldier. “I’m twenty-eight, thank you very much! And protecting the native wildlife is necessary for the success of-”

“It all grew back, didn’t it!?”

“Enough!!” Wash barks. “Do either of you know anything about the temple?”

The two rival soldiers jump apart, seemingly shocked at how much their argument had brought them into each other’s space. They both sheepishly shake their heads.

“Great. Both of you keep a lid on it unless you’ve got something useful to contribute.” Wash grabs his gun back from where Sarge was holding it out for him, and starts marching down the path again. Sarge reaches for his radio.

“Howdy, this is Patrol Squad Charlie reporting a disturbance. You’re not gonna believe this one Donut; a tangy, orange shockwave is headed your way! Keep an eye on Grif, maybe it only affects like-colors, heheheh.... No it didn’t do diddly squat to us, no noticeable effects. Made my toes a little tingly tho…. Mhmm... Roger that. Sarge out.”

“Orders?” Wash asks.

Sarge shakes his head, “We keep going unless anything weird comes up. Erry’body still got the same amount o’ limbs that they left the car with?”

Everyone gives Sarge a look.

“I will take that as a “yes”. Let’s get goin’ then.”

They trudge down the trail for a while, slipping on loose rocks and tripping on hidden tree roots. Wash is very much distracted. He can’t stop thinking about what the pulse could have been, what could have caused it. Chorus had an extremely powerful magnetic field protecting it from solar storms, so that couldn’t have been an aurora, not this far South.

His worrying must’ve shown somehow, because Sarge comes up to walk beside him.

“Hey blue, don’t worry your pretty little head about it. The nerds will figure out what’s what, yeah?”

“Sarge, I appreciate the effort, but until we know exactly what that was, we won’t know if we’ll be alright. What if effects are delayed? We could all drop dead five minutes from now!”

Sarge huffs in laughter, “Honestly, Blue, if we ain’t feelin it now, we’re not gonna feel it till we find cancer in weird places in a few decades, heheheh! And chances are, by then? We’ll be dead from somethin' else!” Sarge leans in to whisper (Which is ridiculous, they’re wearing helmets and using short range radio), “Well, us at least. Kiddos back there might, uh…”

Sarge stops.

Wash stops. “What’s wro-”

Oh.

Volleyball and Big Red are gone.

Wash suddenly feels woozy. Oh god. They lost part of their patrol. _He was right_. The wave was going to make them all drop dead. Wash’s helmet starts to feel cramped, and his face feels hot. He wants to rip off his helmet. Everything is too bright, too bright. He closes his eyes and, woah, bad idea. He starts to stumble around, and drops his rifle. Then gives up entirely and just drops to his knees.

“-shington! Washington!! Hey!!!” Sarge smacks his faceplate with a gloved hand, bringing things back into focus. Sarge’s armor looks really really red. Like. Really red.

“I’m good! I’m good!” Wash yells as Sarge winds up to punch him.

Sarge lowers his fist. “C’mon, you’re not doing any good sitting there waiting for the reaper, mister drama. Let’s go find the shrimps. I will bet you fifty dollars that they are _not_ corpses.”

“Sarge, I don’t have any money. _You_ don’t have any money. There’s no currency here.”

“I will bet you fifty… shotgun shells?”

Wash grimaces. “Never mind. I’m getting up.”

They start to backtrack and Wash feels horribly embarrassed over his breakdown: That isn’t like him at all.

Well. The overreacting, yeah _sure_ , but he’s almost always got a lid on it, at least.

Colors still seem too bright, and his hearing is feeling kind of mushy too, which is why Wash does not notice when Sarge freezes at a suspicious noise, and walks right around a boulder into a clearing where, on some purple colored grass, two very naked twenty-something year olds were vigorously...

Wash’s face heats up even more, and he turns right around. He immediately trips on someone’s helmet, catches himself, then trips again on a rock, stumbles right into Sarge, who misses catching him, and falls right on his face.

“Found them!” Wash’s voice cracks and he scrambles, trying to get up and away. He makes it about ten feet before the claustrophobic feeling threatens to overwhelm him again. He doesn’t resist and fumbles for the seals of his helmet. He can feel his heart beating in the tips of his fingers, his toes, his dick, his scalp. Holy shit, was the climate control broken? It’s hot, it’s too-

Wash’s helmet pops off. And that’s it.

The air smells sweet. Colors get painfully bright. And Wash Jr is beyond waking up, Wash Jr is wide awake and chugging caffeine laden energy drinks like a teenager who’s got a final exam paper due the next morning and hasn’t even started. And Wash is trying really hard to think of more bad euphemisms to stop himself from feeling so horny all of a sudden, but it’s not working:  He is really fucking hard.

Something touches his arm and he jumps back. It’s like ants are crawling under his skin from the point of contact, even though there’s about two inches of armor separating his skin from, well, everything. Sarge (red, so red) backs up, hands out in a non-threatening gesture.

“Alright Blue, you need to take it easy okay? Deep breaths. I didn’t realize you’re delicate Freelancer sensibilities would be wounded from some dick n’ titty.”

“I’m not- I’m not delicate!!” Wash shouts, and winces. Now that his helmet is off, everything is loud.

He picks his helmet up from where he dropped it and tries to walk back to the path, away from the soldiers having, from the sound of it, very satisfying congress.

“Hey! We’re on- on a mission!” Sarge shouts. “We gotta break those two apart and get back to… Oh boy...”

Sarge stumbles forwards. Part of Wash says the right thing to do here is warn him; don’t take off your helmet, don’t breathe in the air. But he hesitates, the moment passes, Sarge reaches of the edges of his helmet, and Wash finds that he really, really wants to see the man’s face.

Wash leans against a rock face, scratching at the stone with his fingers from the inability to stay still, staring as Sarge reacts to whatever it is in the air. The man’s eyes go wide, and his hold on his shotgun loosens. It takes him a moment to orient himself and by then Wash can’t look away.

He knows it’s the orange wave, and he knows he’s going to regret this later, but right now Sarge is the _hottest_ thing he’s ever seen. He’s definitely got the grizzled old soldier look working for him. The gray in his sharply trimmed hair and beard make him look distinguished (and even drugged-to-the-gills-Wash here can laugh at that idea), his cheekbones and jaw make his face angular and handsome, and when dark, brown eyes finally meet Wash’s, he finds that his codpiece feels a bit tighter than before.

As does the rest of his armor.

Actually. Scratch “a bit”. All this needs to come off.

Right. Now.

He tears at the latches of his gauntlets and gloves, while Sarge dazedly keeps looking at him, finally losing his gun to gravity.

“Huh… what are you…. ah...” He takes a step forward right as Wash throws his gloves to the ground and launches at him.

Wash misses Sarge’s lips and gets a mouthful of prickly mustache, but Sarge comes up to meet him and, jesus, it feels good, it feels so good. Like he’s coming out of being numb and everything is still a little distant and tingling. You have to hand it to older guys: they sure are experienced kissers.

He can feel Sarge trying to get at the clasps on his chestpiece and returns the favor. When the bulkiest part of the armor is finally out of the way what feels like a million years later, (actually something more along the lines of eight seconds), Wash can finally press up against the Red soldier properly, chest to chest, and runs his hands through short, gray hair as Sarge fumbles blindly to get his own gauntlets and gloves off behind Wash’s back. Wash moves off his bitten and bruised lips to roll down the collar of Sarge’s kevlar suit.

What he finds there is almost enough to rattle him from the firm grip of dick-lust that’s taken over every inch of his brain. Bold tattoos of various sizes sprawl across Sarge’s collarbone, over his shoulders, and under Wash’s spread hands as he stares down at the large flaming skull pattern and tries to get his stupid lizard brain to wrap around the knowledge that _Sarge is fucking ODST._  “What the hell,” he pants, “you were a _Helljumper?_ ”

“Ten years,” Sarge grunts as he fists a hand in Wash’s hair and latches onto his neck and oh shiiiit, shit that feels so good, Wash can see down Sarge’s back and he pulls away his undersuit to reveal more ink.

 _Ten years._  Most Helljumpers don’t even live _five_ years.  “So- _mmmnnngghh!_ Don’t! Stop! So that’d make you-”

“Twenty. Six.” Sarge punctuates each word with a scraping of teeth against his throat.

Wash laughs and that’s the last time either of them say something coherent for a long while.

Sarge backs Wash up against the rock face he’d been leaning on and Wash lets him, head buzzing, brain swimming in a hormone soup as he wrenches down Sarge’s undersuit past his hips, then pulls down his own. Sarge is still working a seriously fierce hickey into Wash’s neck, so he wedges an arm between them, and pulls a freelancer move to shove the older man off and spin them around to push Sarge up against the rock instead.  He scratches his fingernails through the coarse hairs on Sarge’s chest, pins them together from knee to nipple and feels, with a sort of dizzying excitement that could possibly also be taken as low-key horror, that Sarge’s dick is lined up right next to his and throbbing. Sarge’s face is bitten and bruised and debauched and _grinning_.

God, everything is so damn _bright._

Wash doesn’t know who does it first, who moves first (him, it was totally him) but he and Sarge are rocking against each other, pressing hips down hard and _grinding_. Suddenly Sarge is shoving against Washington, turning them again, pushing Wash back, and this time he can’t be bothered to fight back, to struggle against him for dominance and the comfort of not-getting-his-back-sandpapered what with all the granite and the jerking movements.

Sarge spits into his hand (that should not be as hot as it is) and wraps it around both their dicks, too tight almost, and twisting at the end of a stroke in way that turns Wash’s entire nervous system into one big humming livewire. It’s like pins and needles except _everywhere_ , but really, mostly his dick. He’s gripping at the rock wall again, trying to get leverage, trying to _move_ , when Sarge moves his mouth back to his shoulder and his hand starts up a slow pace.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Wash gasps, tipping his head back and smacking against the rock hard enough to hurt.  His leg comes up to hook around the back of Sarge’s knee and Washington pulls him closer until he stumbles, until they’re pressed so close together Sarge can’t hardly move his hand anymore but this is fine, they’re not a couple of kids, they can take their time.  Well, some time.  Not too much time, not with Wash so hard it practically hurts, dick twitching in Sarge’s grip when his thumb brushes over the tip.

Sarge doesn’t make a whole lot of noise, just a few grunts and harsh inhales when Wash leverages his hips to thrust up into Sarge’s hand, but he’s shaking all over and there’s sweat dripping down his back, and Wash’s hands are slipping over his skin when he tries to grip.  Sarge feels like a wildfire, like a smoldering lump of coal against him and his mouth is always, _always_ somewhere on Wash, sucking, teeth scraping, plucking at his skin and leaving teeth marks.  Sarge hunches down and ducks his head to latch onto a nipple and Wash almost sees stars, all the air leaving him in a rush as he pants, arches, babbles something about not stopping, no stopping, never stopping.

When they part far enough for Sarge to start jerking them off again they’re both wet, dicks leaking all over Sarge’s hand, their bellies smeared with each other’s precum and Wash is shaking, shaking into pieces, Sarge’s hand too tight and too fast and too rough, and oh, oh, god dammit. “ _God dammit!_ ” Wash echoes brokenly as his balls draw up and he cums hard between them, spattering against Sarge’s chest and the way it drips off Sarge’s muscles must do something for him because he hisses air in through his teeth and he comes too, finally stops moving his hand in that frantic up-down-twist-squeeze thing that had been like sweet, sweet torture over the sensitive head of Wash’s cock and he gets to watch Sarge’s jaw wire up tight as he grunts _just barely_ and comes all over himself, too.

They melt against the rock face, exhausted, and for a while, all they can hear is their own panting and the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and bushes. It’s… Kinda nice. Wash is still dazed, head still spinning a bit. And from how Sarge keeps blinking really hard and squinting, he’s still reeling from it all too.

Once the afterglow fizzles out, the sweat cools, the cum dries all sticky, and clarity sets in... the panic begins to surface. The men scramble apart. Wash fumbles to cover himself with his kevlar suit, Sarge mirroring him with his helmet, like they weren’t just rubbing their dicks all over each other a minute ago. They lock eyes. Horrified.

“We.” Wash starts. Slowly. “Are never. _Ever_. Speaking of this again.”

“Absolutely not!” Sarge huffs. “This does NOT leave this rock!!”

“Right. In fact!” Wash points at Sarge aggressively. “This never happened!”

“Darn tootin! No Red in his right mind would ever have relations with a dirty Blue!! No matter how handsome they are!! Or how nice they smell!!”

“Right- Wait what!?”

“Like fresh laundry!!”

“ _Jesus Christ_.”

“We were sky-roofied!”

“It was the tower!”

“Hinky alien magic!!”

“Right!”

“Right.”

“Hey Colonel, Agent.”

They both jump a foot in the air while still seated. At the edge of the clearing stands Volleyball and Big Red, all dressed up again.

Wash wants to die. His ears probably match the color of Sarge’s helmet.

Which is covering Sarge’s dick.

Which he _was just rubbing up agai-_

“Can we help you!?” Wash’s squeaks, in that way that he hates. In that way he wishes to God his voice was not doing right now at this moment. Could this get any worse?

“It can… uh” Big Red sputters. “It can wait till you get dressed?”

Sarge unabashedly stands up to go find his undersuit. Their subordinates politely turned their gazes away, and Wash tries (and fails) to take a calming, deep breath. He and Sarge get dressed in record time, but, oh god, he can still feel the jizz sticking to his front, and knowing Sarge isn’t any cleaner is mortifying.

Volleyball goes and breaks the most awkward silence of Wash’s life of embarrassing moments. “So, like, I sure hope Doctor Grey has plan B or some shit.”

Wash leaps at the excuse to be Competent Leader Agent Washington and not Literally-Just-Got-Caught-With-My-Pants-Down Agent Washington and assures her, “Yes! I’m quite sure that Doctor Grey will have some emergency contraceptives back at the base.”

And for something to do that isn’t standing in this uncomfortable circle (Seriously, he’s cataloguing this entire excursion into the “repress as soon as possible” part of his brain), he radios Grey to check.

And then he immediately turns his radio off again when a cacophony of sex noises, the likes of which porno directors (and Tucker) have only dreamed of, meets his ears. Grey moaning Kimball’s name clearly standing out from the apparent base-wide orgy, cut off halfway through from Wash slamming down on the metaphorical “end call” button.  


Oh boy.

**Author's Note:**

> Ten THOUSAND THANK YOUs to Eggstasy who literally wrote the porny bits for me because I can only write the whole-wheat bread slices of a PWP sandwich. U DA BEST :)
> 
> like always: if there's typos or something's weird please let me know!


End file.
